The Skylark's Secret Read online

  With the two extra pairs of hands, the rows were quickly harvested. By the time they’d finished, the boys’ cheeks glowed with their exertions and the sea air.

  Flora set aside a handful of potatoes and dug up a couple of neeps to take into the kitchen. Once boiled and mashed, they would accompany the venison stew that she’d prepared earlier, which simmered slowly on the stove so it’d be ready for her father’s supper when he came off the hill.

  She ushered the boys into the cottage. ‘We’ll leave our boots at the door, that’s it. And then let’s wash the dirt off our hands.’

  Sitting at the kitchen table, the boys seemed to relax a little as she set cups of milk down in front of them. ‘There you go. You’ve earned that.’ She buttered wedges of oatmeal bannock and spread them thickly with bramble jam before passing them across.

  Stuart took a bite and washed it down with a gulp from his cup. ‘Mmm, that’s good. Our mam used to make bannock sometimes. But at Mrs Carmichael’s we mostly just get bread and dripping.’

  ‘So are you settling in all right? It must be a big change for you, coming away from the city.’

  ‘Davy doesn’t like the dark. The house is awful big and there’s all sorts of noises in the night. School’s nice here, though. We’re all in the one room, so I can look out for him and make sure the other boys don’t bother him.’

  ‘Do they bother you?’ Flora asked.

  ‘No, not really. It was worse in my old school. But it was easier to bunk off there, ’cause no one really paid any notice. We tried bunking off here one day, but Mr Carmichael was putting up notices about what to do if the air-raid sirens go and he saw us fishing off the jetty and gave us a skelping. We’d to go straight back to school and apologise to Miss Anderson.’

  Trying to keep a straight face, Flora said, ‘Well, you do need to go to school. My brother always wanted to be out fishing, too, but he knew to do it at the weekends and in the holidays.’

  ‘Where’s your brother now, miss?’

  ‘He’s in the navy. Off on one of those ships out there.’ She had no idea where Ruaridh was at the moment. She hoped he was moored up safely, and she tried not to think of him patrolling the hostile northerly waters where U-boats lurked unseen in the depths.

  ‘I want to join the navy when I’m grown,’ Stuart said. ‘Davy can come, too, and we’ll be on a ship together. Maybe we can be on the same ship as your brother.’

  ‘Well, maybe. As long as you stick at your studies. You’ll need to know all sorts of things if you’re to join up.’

  She cut them each another slice of bannock and refilled their cups, recalling how Ruaridh and Alec had sat at the table just like this at the same age, wolfing down their food before running back outside to continue whatever adventure they’d embarked upon that day. She was just reaching again for the pot of jam when a muffled boom made them all turn towards the window.

  ‘What was that?’ Davy asked, startled into finding his voice at last.

  ‘Was it a bomb, miss? Are the Germans invading?’

  Flora peered out across the loch, but couldn’t see any obvious signs of an explosion at first. As she watched, though, a plume of dark smoke appeared out beyond the island, and several ships were changing course, heading in the direction of the mouth of the loch.

  ‘I don’t think so. But something’s going on. Don’t worry,’ she said, catching sight of the fear on Davy’s face. ‘We’re better protected here than pretty much anywhere else in the country. The navy will look after us. Let’s put our boots on and go and see what’s happened. Here, you can take this with you to eat on the way. Don’t let it spoil your lunch, though, or Mrs Carmichael will be after me!’

  There was a buzz of activity around the loch, but it was impossible to make out exactly what was going on. The main focus seemed to be on a point out beyond the mouth of the loch, obscured by the island. They walked towards the jetty, overtaken by a series of military vehicles that sped past them in the same direction.

  A small crowd had gathered near the pier. Flora caught sight of Bridie and Mairi in the throng. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘They say it’s the Nelson. She’s hit a mine.’

  A jolt of panic flooded Flora’s veins. Alec’s ship. ‘How bad is it? Has she sunk?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ Bridie shrugged. ‘But the ship’s holed. It’s going to take them a while to bring her in.’

  Flora blanched at the sight of a fleet of ambulances driving fast along the road from the camp. They pulled up at the end of the jetty and several uniformed men jumped out, hurrying to throw medical supplies and equipment into a waiting launch. They clambered down the ladder on the harbour wall and the boat sped out into the loch as soon as the last of them had taken his seat.

  ‘That doesn’t look good.’ Mairi frowned.

  Flora wrung her hands in frustration at not being able to do anything, not knowing whether Alec might be among the casualties.

  ‘Clear the way now! Go back to your homes! All non-naval personnel are to leave the area immediately.’ Mr Carmichael bustled forward importantly, his ARP helmet firmly on his head, asserting his authority. Then he caught sight of the two boys who were hopping from foot to foot, caught up in the excitement of the drama unfolding on the water. ‘Stuart and David Laverock, what are you doing here?’ he bellowed. ‘Get yourselves home immediately.’

  Flora gave them a sympathetic smile and nodded her head. ‘Best get back now. Mrs Carmichael will be worrying about you. And it’s nearly lunchtime.’ She shooed them gently towards the house next to the jetty.

  She and Mairi walked with Bridie as far as the Macdonalds’ house, where they stood at the gate for a moment, watching the activity out on the loch. Painfully slowly, and listing heavily to one side, the bulk of the Nelson drew into view, closely flanked by two destroyers, making for the harbour.

  ‘You know, we should join up,’ Bridie said. ‘One of the sailors I was talking to on the jetty said they’re recruiting Wrens. Apparently they need drivers and all sorts.’

  ‘But we can’t drive,’ pointed out Flora.

  Bridie waved a hand dismissively. ‘We can learn. And there must be other things we can do, too.’

  Mairi nodded. ‘She’s right. After all, we can’t just sit by and watch while ships are being blown up right on our doorstep.’

  Flora thought of the ambulances speeding towards the jetty. If either Ruaridh or Alec needed help, she’d be one of the first to respond. Her heart lurched again as she sent up a silent prayer that Alec wasn’t among the casualties on the wounded vessel as it crept towards the shore.

  The thought of the injured men decided it. ‘All right. We’ll go this afternoon then. Come and call for me after lunch and we can walk over to the camp and ask.’

  Lexie, 1978

  Every surface of Mum’s sitting room is filled with photos in frames. Before the arrival of Hurricane Daisy, they were interspersed with herds of china animals and hordes of glass knick-knacks, but those have now been packed away for safekeeping. Daisy has mastered the art of a surprisingly fast commando crawl and the ability to lever herself on to her feet if there’s anything to hang on to, so everything precious and breakable on the lower shelves and the coffee table has been moved to higher ground out of the way of her exploring fingers.

  I’ve just left one of the little china ornaments out, a tiny white horse that was always Mum’s favourite. I pick it up and stroke the lines of its long mane with my forefinger before carefully replacing it between two of the picture frames.

  Many of the photos are of me, at every stage of my childhood and then on into my stage career: I talk Daisy through them and she looks politely at each one as I hold it up for her to see.

  ‘There’s me with my bucket and spade on the beach at Slaggan Bay. We’ll walk there one day in the summer and take a picnic, shall we? And this is your mummy in the school show, singing a solo. One of my earlier stage appearances. This one looks like Carousel – a publicit
y photo of me as Louise Bigelow. And here’s a nice one of your mummy and your granny in London, see?’

  ‘Mmm?’ Daisy asks, pointing at the picture.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. That’s Mummy. And your granny, Flora.’ It strikes me that we could almost pass as sisters, Mum looks so young in the photo. We shared the same russet-gold curls, in her case faded a little and drawn into a neat sandy braid, whereas mine tumbled over my shoulders. We were outside the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, standing in front of the poster for Piers’s production of A Chorus Line in which I’d just landed my role. If you look closely you can just about make out my name, which Mum is pointing at. My London name, that is. Those dance classes were killers, I remember; my legs were sore for months. But it was worth the pain. My career was on an upward trajectory then. I was being given bigger roles, expanding my repertoire.

  In this photograph I can see that I look radiant. My happiness had something to do with the new production. It had a lot to do with the fact that my mum had come to visit and I always enjoyed showing her London, sharing my new life with her, which was hundreds of miles – both literal and metaphorical ones – from Keeper’s Cottage on the shores of Loch Ewe. But most of all, I remember, I was overflowing with joy because I’d so recently met Piers.

  Looking at my face in the photo, I feel sorry for that girl now, the girl I once was. She felt invincible, golden, chosen from among so many other singers and actors. She was oblivious to the fall that was to come.

  The show was a hit. With my first pay packet, I went shopping and bought the beautiful suede jacket that I’d coveted in the window of the boutique I passed each day on my way to the theatre. The minute I slipped it on I felt like a star. Like someone who’d made it, a girl who had successfully shrugged off her previous persona and become somebody else altogether. And now it hangs in the back of the wardrobe, a useless piece of clothing that’s entirely unsuited to the place I’ve washed up in, creased and stained, as forlorn as its owner. I should really take it to be dry-cleaned, but that would involve a day’s trip to Inverness and another day to go and pick it up: the thought of the petrol and the cost of the cleaning and the effort it would take to bundle Daisy into the car defeat me.

  I sigh and settle the photo frame back in its place on the sideboard.

  Daisy begins to fuss, as if she can sense the slide in my mood. I pick up another photo. This one is of Mum and she’s wearing the dark uniform of the WRNS. The severity of the tailored uniform contrasts with the informality of her pose, leaning against the bonnet of a military jeep, her hair blowing in the wind. She’d have been about twenty then, I suppose. The most striking thing about the picture, though, is the expression in her eyes. Just like my own in the previous photo, they are shining, radiating the purest joy as she gazes at whoever is taking the picture. I swallow hard as tears threaten to spill on to Daisy’s rose-gold curls. Mum looks so carefree, even though they must have been hard times, those war years. I feel almost certain that the person taking the photo was my father, even though I know so little about him. I remember my conversation with Bridie Macdonald on the road the other day and wonder again what it might be that she is so loath to reveal. Next time I’m passing her house, I’ll invite myself in and get her to tell me what she knows, I resolve. It’s my history, after all, my parents’ story.

  I run the tip of my finger over the outline of my mother’s face, gently tracing the contours of her smile.

  Yes, I think, my dad must have been the one behind the camera. Because I know how much she loved him. There was no one else who could have made her look that way.

  Flora, 1939

  ‘Gently lift your foot off the clutch and press the other one down on the accelerator at the same time.’

  The truck lurched forward, taking out a couple of the oil drums that had been set out to mark a course for steering practice.

  ‘Oops, sorry,’ Bridie said cheerfully.

  The lieutenant in the passenger seat sighed deeply, grabbing the handbrake to bring the vehicle to a standstill before its fledgling driver could wreak any more havoc. ‘I should be paid danger money for this job,’ he grumbled. ‘Teaching you Wrens to drive is far more dangerous than being out on the deck of a pitching ship in a Force 8 gale, if you ask me.’

  In the back, Flora and Mairi clung to the edge of the bench seats that ran along the sides of the truck and tried not to shriek with a mixture of laughter and nerves.

  ‘Right, let’s try that again. Think about how your friends did it. Slowly and gently. I said SLOWLY!’

  This time, with a loud crunch of the gears, the truck jolted towards the group of Nissen huts at the edge of the parade ground, swerving just in time to miss the camp’s commander, who had stepped out to watch the proceedings.

  ‘Och, I think I’m getting the hang of this double-declutching thing now,’ Bridie called out over the roar of the motor as she stamped both feet down on the pedals. ‘Just let me try that again.’

  The lieutenant sighed once more. It was going to be another long afternoon. ‘Let’s take a break,’ he said. He turned to address Flora and Mairi. ‘You two can go and report to the office. You’ve passed.’ He signed his name on the bottom of a couple of forms and handed them over. ‘Give these to the officer at the desk. He’ll let you know which detail you’ll be assigned to. Now,’ he said, bracing a hand against the dashboard and turning back to Bridie, ‘let’s give it another go . . .’

  It was dark inside the tin hut, where a makeshift desk had been set up next to a small window that allowed a square of winter light to enter. It took a moment or two for Flora and Mairi’s eyes to adjust. They stepped forward and proffered the forms to the orderly sitting at the desk. He took them without a word and began writing the girls’ details on to cards for filing. Once he’d finished, he looked up at them. ‘Miss Gordon. Miss Macleod. Report to Hut Eight. They’ll sort you out with your uniforms. You’ll be assigned for general driving duties on a day-to-day basis and ambulances when needed. Welcome to the Wrens.’

  Blinking as they stepped back out into the open air, Mairi grinned at Flora. ‘We did it!’ They watched for a moment as out on the parade ground, Bridie appeared to be making headway with her driving, too, negotiating the oil drums without sending them rolling in all directions now. ‘Looks like she might be joining us soon. And there’s Hut Eight.’ She pointed to the row of newly constructed buildings at one side of the small bay.

  The toot of a horn made them look round. A car had pulled into the camp, and a uniformed figure waved to attract their attention.

  ‘It’s Alec!’ Flora exclaimed, joy brightening her face like sunlight on water.

  He strode towards them, arms outstretched. ‘Flora, Mairi, have you joined up? That’s wonderful news! I’m glad I’ve run into you because I have something to tell you, too. I’m being assigned to duties here, helping to commission the port. We’re needing a good signalman and I’ve suggested Ruaridh, since he knows the lie of the land and every inch of the loch like the back of his hand. It’s not definite yet, but I’m hoping he’ll be transferred.’

  The surge of hope in her heart was so powerful that Flora couldn’t speak.

  Alec smiled down at her. ‘Wouldn’t that be something? All of us back here together, just like old times? He might even be home in time for Christmas.’

  ‘That would be the very best news possible,’ Flora replied, finding her voice again. ‘Having Ruaridh back. And you, too, Alec. Thank goodness you weren’t one of those hurt when the Nelson was blown up.’

  Against the grey of the sky and the waters beneath it, her face and hair glowed, lit by her smile. Alec glanced down at the toes of his boots, apparently self-conscious all of a sudden, his usual easy confidence deserting him. But then he raised his eyes to hers again and plucked up the courage to say, ‘There’s to be a dance at the hall on Hogmanay. Will the two of you be going? I could come and pick you up, if you like.’

  Flora hesitated. ‘Will Diana be coming up f
or it?’ she asked, keeping her voice light.

  Alec’s eyes went back to his boots and his face flushed slightly. He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid to say Miss Kingsley-Scott has broken off our engagement. She’s met someone else in London, someone rather more important than a mere sub-lieutenant assigned to the sticks.’

  Flora tucked a stray strand of hair back into her braid. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that.’ Her words belied the rush of relief she felt. She was a little surprised at the strength of that feeling, but told herself it was just that Alec surely deserved someone with a bit more warmth about her. She and Mairi exchanged a glance, and Mairi nodded. ‘The dance would be grand. Thank you. And Alec—’ Flora broke off, trying to find the words, overcome with emotion once again. Had to make do with a simple, ‘Thank you for recommending Ruaridh, too. It’ll be good to have the pair of you safely back on dry land.’

  He saluted them smartly, then turned on his heel and marched off to report to his commanding officer, only once turning back to glance over his shoulder at the girls as they made their way across to the other side of the camp to collect their uniforms.

  On New Year’s Eve the hall filled up rapidly as more and more of the men arrived, having stopped off at the bar in the Aultbea Hotel for a pint or two, shouting greetings and slapping the backs of their shipmates. There were some faces that Flora recognised from the camp and many others who were strangers, recently returned from duties out at sea.

  Alec had very gallantly collected Flora, Mairi and Bridie for the Hogmanay dance and driven them to the hall, preserving their newly waved hairdos and carefully pressed skirts. He found them chairs and brought them drinks, introducing them to some of his fellow officers. A small band began to tune up at the far end of the hall, the notes of a fiddle rising above the hubbub of voices.

  Flora’s face lit up at the sight of her brother entering the hall with a girl on his arm. So that’s where he’d disappeared off to earlier; she’d thought he must be heading for the hotel, whose recently rechristened ‘Jellyjar Tavern’ had become a popular gathering place for naval personnel. The jelly and jam jars in question had been pressed into use when the hotel had run out of glasses, to satisfy the increase in demand from thirsty soldiers and sailors, so the men had begun bringing whatever they could lay their hands on to be filled with beer. Ruaridh had told her that one especially enterprising sub-lieutenant had managed to persuade Miss Cameron, the postmistress, to part with one of the large sweetie jars that were now sitting empty on the shelf in her shop since sugar rationing had come in. The jar could be filled with several pints of beer and passed around between those who hadn’t managed to find a suitable drinking vessel of their own.